Something to hold on to
by The Bella Cat
Summary: So he's never had a real home and he's never had a real family. He didn't get to choose how he came into this world and he probably won't get to choose how he leaves it. But maybe it's the choices he makes in between that counts. Dylan sits on a park bench, smokes a cigarette and makes a few decisions. Some big, some small, all his.
I wrote this to follow Dylan and Norma's last conversation. I have played with the timeline a little but hopefully not too much to be distracting. I wanted to do something that both felt tragic and final but I also wanted it to show Dylan's personal growth and his bond with Emma.

I've always loved his goofy sense of humour with her and I hope I have at least in part captured it here.

Title is from Bruce Springsteen's _Human Touch_. As you will know if you read _When There's No One to Lean On_ , I have this headcanon that Dylan likes heartland rock. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

He smokes. Sits on a park bench in the icy cold and smokes, blows grey smog into grey sky.

He doesn't do this much anymore. What with spending nearly every waking moment with Emma, the girl with a brand spanking new set of lungs that nearly killed the both of them to attain, smoking has become something of a rare indulgence. Blowing tar and nicotine into her air supply hardly makes him Good Boyfriend Material and he's trying so _so_ hard to be exactly that. Truth is, he'll be fucked if he's going to let a cigarette within a 10 mile radius of her. In fact he thinks it might just be safer to ban the little cancer sticks in the whole of Oregon. Maybe the States. Hell, while he's at it, the whole fucking world.

It's a pipe dream. A really nice one, but a pipe one nonetheless especially as he can't even completely quit himself. He's trying though. He's trying really hard. But sometimes the day is a day like today and sometimes when he thinks about it and he thinks about Norma and Norman and Caleb and fuck, even Alex (because why the hell not throw him in their too?), he tries not to be too hard on himself for giving into his vices. You can't win every day. You just have to promise to try.

And he does. For Emma, he does.

And no, he's not really thinking about the smoking anymore. He might not be college educated and he might not be a shrink and he might not be a lot of other things, but even he knows that when he feels down like this, when this kind of thing happens, that the smoking is just a part of a much bigger problem. The Bates Family Problem. And he _has_ tried. He's tried so fucking hard. But days like today he just doesn't have it in him anymore. Norma and her histrionics, Norman and his creepiness, both of them an impregnable fortress of lies and coverups and codependency. And Alex, poor sweet dumb Alex who still thinks that maybe he can win, that maybe he can make it right. It would almost be laughable if he didn't feel so damn sorry for the guy.

 _(You've always been jealous of him)_

 _(You were never a real mother to me)_

He closes his eyes. Don't think of that now. Just don't. It's over. Done. They're leaving. Him and Emma. They're leaving this behind him.

If he doesn't have a real family maybe he can make his own.

He inhales, holds his breath and lets the smoke curl into lungs. It feels good. It feels so _so_ good to court death one cigarette at a time. He knows there's a very specific kind of irony in this somewhere, the kind where he almost kills himself to save Emma's lungs and then destroys his own. It's a joke, but nobody's laughing.

 _Emma…_

He thinks of his fingers in her hair, the dusting of freckles on her shoulders, the way she has a certain smile that's just for him. Only for him.

And it's wonderful. But it's so fucking frightening all the same.

They've slipped into it - into each other - so easily. It's not like he went into it thinking it _should_ be hard, that they should be challenged at every turn. He's old enough and wise enough to know that that kind of drama is, and should be, confined to books and movies. That in reality tearing each other apart and pulling each other back together and rounds of intense make-up sex followed by tearful angsty confessions are not signs of a healthy relationship. And yeah, Norma Bates is his mother. His uncle is his father. He's seen enough drama to know. In fact, he's probably a fucking Drama Expert (yes of course it's capitalised, what the hell else _could_ it be?). Drama. Expert. Step right up, he has the qualifications - each one individually earned at The School of Hard Knocks.

And yet still he worries. It's not that he's sitting on tenterhooks waiting for Emma to suddenly decide that this isn't worth it and she wants out. Wants some college boy who can give her the world and everything else she deserves too. It's not that at all. Emma has a way of putting him at ease. There's no malice in her and she doesn't play games. And god, just being able to stop playing Bates Family Games for a few minutes is probably the most precious thing anyone has ever given him.

(In his heart Dylan knows that these Games are just second nature to them, that Norman and Norma are just so used to them that they seem commonplace, that they need them to survive in the same way that people outside the Bates Family Situation - caps again? You bet your ass - need water and air.)

So no, it's not any perceived fickleness that worries him, nor is it this unnamed college boy that exists only in the periphery of his low self-esteem, it's the fact that he's gotten used to this so quickly. That even after a day like today, a day in which he broke his mother and, in turn, she broke him right back, he can still find it in himself to look forward to tomorrow, to still believe there is goodness and love in the world and that he deserves a piece of it, no matter what anyone else might say or do to him.

That's not to say him and Emma aren't still in the honeymoon stages of their relationship. He's been in enough to know. That burn deep within his belly to be near her, to touch her, kiss her, run his hands over her hips, trail his fingers over her breasts and hear her sigh into his mouth as he does. That feeling of being cast adrift - lost at sea - when he knows he won't see her for a day, and that feeling of complete and utter euphoria when he's near her again. He knows all these feelings, they aren't new in the sense that he's never had them before. What is new though is that he's as content to lie next to her holding her hands, kissing her palms while she talks about her day, her lungs, her medication, her dad, as he is to be undressing her, tasting the sugar salt of her skin, hooking his fingers into her underwear and pulling the damp fabric down her legs and then losing himself in her.

She feels like home. And that, along with certain hard truths about The Bates Family Situation make him realise that he's never had a home before.

And that's the thing. Whatever else you want to call it, however Norma tries to justify it, or even how he tries to convince himself otherwise, Dylan Massett has never had a home. Four walls and a roof yes, but a place to call his own, where he can be safe and warm and at peace with himself. A place that keeps the bad things out and the good things in, no. Never. Until now. Until Emma.

And that's why it's frightening and also sort of wonderful.

She asked him once - one night as they lay tangled in each other, his sweat cooling on her skin and hers on his - asked him if it could be like this forever. For as long as they have.

 _Do you want this Dylan? Do you want it to be like this?_

And for a second it had all felt too real, too raw, like it could break him apart if he let it settle too deep within him. So he'd kissed her hair and then her forehead, her ear and let the scruff of his beard brush against her cheek until she squealed and giggled and pushed him away.

 _Too much?_ She'd asked.

 _No, not too much._

 _Well then?_ Raised eyebrow, pursed lips.

He'd pretended to muse a little. Rolled over onto his back and stared at the flaking paint on her ceiling, the small, old postcard of the Eiffel Tower on her wall, and frowned.

Did she mean exactly like this, he'd asked. Her childhood bedroom with her dad semi-asleep down the hall? And what about ice-cream? There hadn't been any at dinner and that was _concerning_. He's not sure he could live a life devoid of ice-cream. Does she know what she's asking? Also now that he thinks about it he's always dreamt of taking up toe-wrestling and he's just not sure if he has the time for anything else right now.

 _Toe-wrestling?_ He could hear the mirth in her voice, barely disguised as she rolled over onto her side to look at him.

Indeed. It's a very competitive sport. Long hours. He needs to focus, doesn't she know? And he needs space to practice. Lots of support. Not sure he can get that here.

She'd furrowed her brow, propped herself up on one arm and rested her hand on his chest. Told him she could see the problem and this was pretty serious. What if he was one fight away from becoming World Toe-Wrestling Champion and she forgot the ice-cream? Or worse, distracted him and he lost all because of her.

He'd nodded sagely. He's glad she can see the problem. It's been weighing heavily on his mind of late. What with her taking her clothes off all the time and other such nudity and nonsense.

Feigned worry. Small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. So it's ice-cream and toe wrestling. Two big issues no doubt, but maybe not insurmountable. She thinks they could make it work. She's willing to try. Anything else?

Well yeah, now that she mentions it yes. He's recently taken up extreme dog grooming. You know when you want your poodle to look like a Ninja Turtle or a pizza or something? Well he's tried it out and he's pretty damn good. And believe it or not, who can make their dog look the stupidest is actually a really cut-throat competition. He's going to need his own doggy parlor and scissors. And hair dye. Lots of hair dye. Also poodles.

 _Oh dear, well this is a problem._

She's not sure she can handle being the woman behind the man with such responsibility on his decidedly wonderful shoulders. Can they do this Dylan? Can they face this together?

He was quiet for a while, letting the moment both stretch for theatrics and because it gave him time to appraise her, sleek and strong and smooth in the shadows, the half light. And he'd almost forgotten what they were talking about when the moon moved out from behind the clouds and drenched the room in silver, laying her bare so he could see the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips, the luminous line of her scar, raised and delicate, highlighted starkly against the darkness beneath the covers.

Earlier he'd kissed it, trailed his lips along it from beginning to end and back again. Planted chains of kisses above and below. She'd said she didn't want it to come between them and he doesn't even want the thought in her head that it could have. And he was about to give up on this ludicrous conversation and remind her again when she poked him with surprising force in the bicep and he found himself propelled back to the reality where he gets to sleep with her and hold her and kiss her. The same reality where she says she loves him and laughs at his jokes. That reality which doesn't feel like reality at all.

He'd composed himself. Dragged his eyes away from her skin, back to her face and those pretty brown eyes he thinks he's always been in love with.

It could be worse, he told her and those eyes grew big with mock surprise.

 _Worse? What could possibly be worse than extreme dog grooming and toe wrestling? How far does this go Dylan?_

 _How. Deep. Is. He. In?_

Well, he could be a superhero or something. A masked one man army, let loose on the streets of White Pine Bay searching desperately to find his arch-nemesis, the one who plagues his dreams and stole his life when he, when he…

 _Ate all the ice-cream?_ She offered.

Yes! When that nasty fucker stole all the ice-cream. Life hasn't been the same since. There are days when he wonders how he can carry on knowing the ice-cream thief is still out there. It haunts him doesn't she know? _Haunts_ him.

She pulled back then, arched an eyebrow, lips set in a firm line.

 _What?_

Well she thought he said he _could_ be a superhero, not that he _was_. She thought he was just drawing a comparison and now it seems he's fallen off the deep end. She's worried. Has this all been lies? All of it?

He'd feigned sheepishness. So maybe she had caught him out. Maybe he wasn't a superhero. But the toe-wrestling? That's totally a thing. Totally. So is the extreme dog grooming. And he does get cranky about ice-cream. So yeah, all of that, totally true. But the superhero bit, maybe not so much. Although he'd like it to be and...

And she'd laughed. Loud enough that he was positive Will would have heard and would be charging into his daughter's room in seconds, shotgun in his hands. But he didn't. And then she'd rolled over onto her back, covers ruched at her waist and gooseflesh tightening across the pale expanse of her skin. And he'd followed her, nestling into her, lips to her breast and hands curving round her hips.

 _We can be superheroes,_ she whispered into his hair. _We can be anything we want._

 _Anything at all?_

 _Anything._

 _Can we be like this forever?_

 _We can be like this forever._

And he didn't worry about ice cream or toe wrestling for a long time after that.

xxx

So yeah maybe it can be like that forever. Calm but also fiery - but All The Right Reasons Fiery. No drama, that's the one rule. Please just no more drama.

He thinks that's asking too much. He is still, after all, the oldest son of the Bates Family even though he's not a Bates at all. No he's Calhoun. He's _all_ fucking Calhoun. And maybe that's the worst thing of all because if someone asked him the question "who in your family loves you the most" the answer would be Caleb. And he hates that. He fucking hates that more than he can even describe. Caleb. Lowlife. Uncle. Father. Rapist. Father. Family. Caleb is a piece of shit. Objectively he knows that. Caleb also loves him. Objectively he knows that too. It's reconciling the two that muddles things up, that makes the very black and white aspects of Caleb's personality into something grey and muddy. Something he's still not comfortable thinking about further than its most superficial ramifications.

But maybe it doesn't have to be like that. Maybe he doesn't have to rely on that kind of love anymore. Maybe there is something better. Maybe he's found it already.

 _(We don't get to choose how we come into this world)_

No he doesn't, but he gets to decide what he wants to do with the life he has. He gets to choose his way.

He stands, stamps the cigarette out in the snow. Enough. Enough for one day. Enough negativity. Enough Norma. Enough smoke. They leave tomorrow. He's not coming back to this place. He's not going back to the house or the motel. He's Moving Forward.

He climbs into his truck, heads into town. On the radio Bruce Springsteen isn't looking for prayers or pity, he's not searching for a crutch, but rather something to hold onto and just a little of that human touch. And Dylan wonders if he's a few steps ahead of Bruce because he thinks he's found it.

xxx

The last time she brought him brownies he gave her his heart, this time he's bringing them to her and he's not sure what exactly that means. But maybe it doesn't have to mean anything. Maybe it can just be enjoyed and there doesn't need to be anything else attached to it.

He doesn't play Games. He refuses.

Will's already in Seattle getting everything ready and maybe that's for the best. Despite Will's own tempestuous marriage he's pretty generous in handing out unsolicited advice for other people's familial issues and Dylan really doesn't feel like a speech on how he should try and build bridges. Put his hurt aside and not be too hard on Norma. How Norman is just a young man trying to find himself and Caleb, well Caleb has had a tough life and needs some sympathy. Will thinks he knows a lot and maybe he does. But there's also a fuck of a lot he doesn't know.

But he's not here and that's good. There's no one here. No one but her.

She's just come out of the shower when he walks through the door - nothing on but a little navy towel - and she's dripping all over the floor, the smell of lilies and patchouli in the air. She's not surprised to see him and grins, pulls him into a wet and slightly chilly hug, tells him she missed him and he was gone far too long. And he kisses her forehead and she let's the towel slip just a little before heading into the bedroom, the coy glance over her shoulder which he knows means that he should follow.

So he does. Because she's Emma and he's Moving Forward.

She sits at her dresser, brushing tangles out of her hair, legs crossed, foot bouncing.

She asks about Norma, she always does. And his answer is non committal. It always is.

He'll tell her. He'll let her in. Just not now. Not yet.

She hopes Norman is doing better. Maybe being at home is good for him. She'll call to say goodbye in the morning.

He grunts. It wasn't much good for him before, why would it be now? Not like anything has changed except he now he has a stepfather. A stepfather who by all accounts is exactly what he needs making him precisely the thing he doesn't want.

She smiles a little at that. He doesn't know that. Maybe it'll be hard at first. But she's pretty sure it won't be forever and when they come to visit - because Dylan they _are_ coming to visit - they'll be one big happy family.

And inside he laughs at her naivete and cries at her hope.

He tells her that he doesn't want to talk about the Bateses or the Romeros or whatever they're all calling themselves these days. They have their own issues to worry about. He's done with them for now. No, he wants to talk about Dylan Massett and Emma Decody, because there's something big they need to discuss.

And she puts her brush down and sits on the bed, holds out her hand so he joins her.

 _Big?_ She sounds concerned. _Is it toe-wrestling?_ It can't be ice-cream because she went to the store and bought an array of different flavours: chocolate chips, pistachio, sour cherry…

What no vanilla? He likes vanilla.

And she grins wickedly and lets the towel open a little further.

No he doesn't. She _knows_ he doesn't. At least not _only_ vanilla.

There's a second that the curve of her breast distracts him enough to consider delaying this surprise of his. She's pretty much naked already and the bed is right there and and...

 _Emma,_ he mouths her name, not really trusting his voice to be anything but a thick rasp. And she smiles innocently.

 _Please Dylan, go on._ She's listening. He was saying something about toe-wrestling? Ice-cream?

Well no, that isn't actually what he wants to talk about. Ice cream and toe wrestling are obviously important but he has something else. Just out of interest where does she see herself in four months time? She have plans?

She bites her lip, gives him a little side eye. _Four months. Gosh Dylan gosh. That's a long way away._ She's not sure. Maybe married to George Clooney and running an international company, buying their seventh villa in Cinque Terre. Then again, it is her birthday in four months so maybe he'll be buying a villa for her. They have so many now, she simply can't keep up.

He frowns. _Oh dear. That's not ideal._ He guesses then she has little interest in his plans. And no time to boot. Oh well that's that he supposes. But you know, in case she changes her mind or George is away or something happens maybe she'd like a plan B.

He hands her the bag of brownies, tells her this is obviously the most important part because what could be more important than brownies? But when she's done maybe she would also like to check out the cardboard folder he tosses onto the bed next to her. Her choice. Totally.

She grins as she takes the little brown paper bag that's already sporting dark grease marks. She leans back a little and makes a show of selecting a brownie, eating it slowly, letting crumbs fall on her towel. She's good but he can see she's dying to open the folder, that keeping this little game going is wearing thin.

He doesn't push though. Just sits on her bed next to her and watches. And maybe he's a sap but he thinks he might be able to watch her eat brownies all day. He's pretty sure he has it in him.

And then she's reaching for the folder and he has a sudden urge to rip it away. Tell her he's changed his mind because she deserves so much more. But he doesn't and he watches as she leafs through the contents, as realisation dawns on her.

She stares at him for a good few minutes, mouth open, eyes still suspicious as if she's expecting a joke behind the joke. And then when none is forthcoming, she launches herself at him, arms around his neck, lips at his ear.

 _Dylan this is insane_. He can't be serious. He just _can't_.

But he is, he tells her. He's serious as a fucking heart attack. And that's pretty damn serious. But it's only if she wants to. If she doesn't it's fine, he can get a refund, he can make another plan.

 _Don't you dare,_ she hisses. _Don't you dare._

This plan is perfect, this is the best plan she's seen since someone decided to give her new lungs. Better than being superheroes.

OK he's not sure about that. Superheroes _are_ awesome.

She gives him a playful shove back onto the bed and shifts so that she's lying half across him and half at his side, towel wedged somewhere between them serving absolutely none of its intended purpose any longer.

Her eyes are shining and her lips curved into a huge smile and he's just so damn happy that she's happy. That he made the right choice that this was the right thing to do.

She's saying a bunch of things all at once and most of them go over his head, because she's talking too fast but he hears her asking how he knew. How did he know she's always wanted to go to Paris. it's been her dream?

 _Her_ dream? He teases, tugging at a strand of wet hair against her cheek. Oh no she misunderstands. This wasn't about her. Has she forgotten the extreme dog grooming already? Where the hell else is he going to get poodles if not Paris? This is about him and his dreams. Not everything is about her.

She makes a face and he laughs, runs his fingers down her cheeks and over her lips. God he loves her. He didn't realise how much he did until he was already so far in that there was no way out and even if there had been he wouldn't have taken it. The fact that she loves him back is some kind of ridiculous stroke of the best luck he's ever had. But there it is.

He nods sheepishly at the Eiffel Tower postcard on the wall, its colours faded and corners dog-eared.

He figured it must have been important for her to keep it. Figured if nothing else it was on her bucket list before. Figured that just because she doesn't need a bucket list anymore doesn't mean she doesn't need a list at all.

And then she kisses him long and slow and sweet, hands framing his face and legs entwining with his until she can straddle him, towel forgotten once and for all in the comforter.

 _You're so good Dylan,_ she says softly, _you're so good to me._

And he laughs again, fits his hands against her hips, fingers digging into the soft skin of her ass.

He's not that good, he says. He just really wants to see her in a beret.

She giggles. He can see her in a beret now if he likes, she tells him. She has one.

But he says no because he's not interested in berets anymore or toe-wrestling or poodles. Not even superheroes. He's interested in this and her and the family he's chosen now. He's interested in that. He's interested in being like that forever.

And then she's unbuttoning his shirt and she whispers that she's interested in forever too.

xxx

Later, when she's warm and asleep he hears his phone beeping, so he slides out of bed to retrieve it from his jeans.

It's a missed call from Alex, another message that he has voicemail. He sighs. He likes Alex, wishes him well. In fact while Norman doesn't appreciate it, he would have probably given his left arm to have a father figure like that. But there are things that aren't his problem anymore, this has to be one of them.

He doesn't listen to the message, presses delete and switches the phone off. He's getting a new number tomorrow. No reason he'll need it again tonight. Or ever.

His cigarettes are also in his pocket, a brand new pack with only one smoked so far. He tosses them into the trash. Kicking bad habits is tough but maybe less so when replacing them with new ones.

And then he climbs back into bed with Emma and she shifts sleepily to fit herself against him, pulls his arm around her and rests it on her belly.

He whispers into her hair that he loves her and for the first time she whispers it back. And it is real and it is raw but it doesn't break him apart like he thought it would.

 _Forever?_ she asks.

 _Forever._ _Forever And Ever_.

All caps? You bet your ass.


End file.
